


Recalculate

by amaranthinecanicular



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Artificial Intelligence, Family Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Robots, Strider Manpain, ai-stuck, characters added with appearance, dave is a robot, in case that wasn't clear, relationships added with appearance, robots everywhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:13:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaranthinecanicular/pseuds/amaranthinecanicular
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today is the first day of your life.</p><p> <i>Recalculate.</i></p><p>Today is the first day of your existence.</p><p>Dirk Strider’s is the first face that you see.</p><p><i>Who am I?</i> is the first thought that you have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the first chapter of my AI fanfic _Recalculate_ , featuring AI-Dave, human genius/inventor/AI rights-activist Dirk, a full cast of AIs and humans, and mushy family feels all over the place. There may be pairings/relationships in later chapters, but it mostly focuses on the brotherly relationship between the Strider bros. I don't think there's anything triggering in the content, but if there is, feel free to tell me!

==>

Today is the first day of your life.

_Recalculate._

Today is the first day of your existence.

Dirk Strider’s is the first face that you see.

_Who am I?_ is the first thought that you have.

But before you can consider the possible implications of such a basic, poignant question, your systems activate all at once: RAM and Hard Drive engage, GPU and motherboard spark on and suddenly you can wiggle your fingers and toes, your fans whir and you take your first deep breath to keep them whirring. At the same time you are flooded with an abundance of information, millions and trillions of facts and details about life and the universe and everything, and about yourself, too expansive and too intricate and too _much_ for any human mind to handle - all of which you break apart into numbers and process into code and carve into your data.

And you have your answer.

"Greetings.” You say to your master, the man who activated you, as your sound card and speakers warm up, “Thank you for purchasing a Crocker Corp.® Personal Companion, Model 103 of the SBURB Beta line. This model includes-"

“I know what it includes, I helped configure it,” Your master snorts, ruffles your synthetic blonde hair in a motion you cypher to be affectionate, and then crisply follows up, “Override code 2409-1995-413.” Your systems lock up and you wait for command. “Your name isn’t Model 103 of the SBURB Beta line. Your name is Dave Strider.”

This information processes. Your fiber-glass irises flicker-flare an inhuman scarlet as you save it to your hard drive.

“This model is now Dave Strider. Changes saved.”

Your master grimaces. “And number two. You’re not an _it_ , and you’re not a model. You’re Dave, a bonafide individual dude and my little bro. You can talk in the first person if you want to.”

Recalculate. _What?_

This is a little harder to process. Something about the information your master just implanted into your CPU is terribly unwelcome. You track down and isolate the data and a quick Web search reveals it to be the foreign concept of free will. You immediately deduce it to be a virus and attempt to delete it before you recall that it was information given to you by your master, and therefore intentional. Recalculate, recalculate. It is in your very programming to purge all viruses, but it would be a direct violation of your master’s order for you to delete it. Recalculate. Prioritize.

In the end, you reluctantly save the information to your hard drive as per your master’s command. This entire ordeal has progressed over the course of .49 seconds, but your master has been watching you carefully and proves to be far more astute than the average human. He picks up on your hesitation, and the muscles of his face twitch into an expression you deduce to be understanding.

"Hey, no man, I get it. This all must be pretty confusing, huh? We don’t have to talk about that shit now. Let’s start over. I’m Dirk Strider, robotics engineer and all around genius, but you can call me Bro." He grins. "But you probably already knew that. It’s nice to meet you, kiddo.”

He’s right - you did already know that. You knew it the first millisecond his image registered through your lenses, the unique contours of his face and color of his irises matching with only one profile of the millions in your CPU: Dirk Strider. Behind your eyes you experience a rush of new data: time, place, date of birth, familial relations and otherwise, previous occupations, current associations and affiliations, GPA in high school, university, graduate university – all degrees, from bachelors to masters. You isolate and refocus on the information your system evaluates to be of prime import: Dirk Strider, age twenty eight, co-creator of the Crocker Corp. ® Artificial Intelligence Units, without whom there is a 99.98% probability the multibillion corporation would never have gotten off the ground. Quit the job spontaneously and without notice, forfeited his shares to said company, and now lives in a small apartment in Queens, New York, New York. Has recently purchased a Crocker Corp.® Personal Companion, Model 103 of the SBURB Beta line.

Your systems have not failed you. You know everything on record about Dirk Strider, and you are ready for whatever he will present.

He holds out a fist, and suddenly you have no idea what to do.

Basic probability confirms that this is 98.8% an act of solidarity and friendship, 2.1% an act of aggression, and .1% something else. Even with the odds on your side, you can’t calculate how next to proceed. Your vast knowledge on human etiquette would dictate you make a fist and firmly meet his, an action colloquially known as a ‘fist bump’, but that’s just it – it’s _human_ etiquette. It’s not for you. You have nothing in your programming to prepare you for such outlandish acts of camaraderie between a human and his AI.

“Cannot – cannot - cannot compute,” you stutter helplessly, and curiously note how monotonous and robotic your voice still sounds. Perhaps there’s a glitch in your sound card. “Recalculate. Error encountered—”

“Hey, man, cool it,” Your master laughs, ruffles your hair again, smiles at you. You analyze his expression and find this time that he seems oddly nonplussed, unsurprised, and even amused. “It’s not rocket science, kid – that’d probably be easier for you to grasp, actually. Don’t over analyze it. Listen, you just make a fist-” He reaches down and helps you to fold your fingers, raises your hand to his, “Like so, and then-” He gently bumps your knuckles together. “There. See? It’s like the handshake of bros.”

He drops his fist, and you continue to stare at yours in wonder, making sure you saved the occurrence to both your RAM and hard drive for further study. Your master turns away and motions for you to follow. “Come on. Let me give you the grand tour.”

You follow.

He walks you through the apartment – cramped, small, littered with bits of various machinery for him to fiddle with. He shows you the kitchen and the food inside, comprised mostly of microwave pizza, instant ramen, beer and apple juice. He shows you the living room, furnished with a ratty couch and a grainy television. He shows you his room, where his sword collection resides – your records mentioned he had an eclectic range of hobbies. He says it’s not much, but it’s home, and the modulation in his voice you deduce to be affection. Lastly he shows you to a small room, in which there is a twin-sized bed and a small dresser. There is less clutter here, most of what’s left accumulating beneath the bed. You deduce he cleaned it hastily, but not quite successfully as he has probably not had much practice, having previously lived alone with no one to clean for. He says it’s for you.

Recalculate. That’s not possible. You say slowly, “Sleep is unnecessary for AI units-” before pausing at the look on his face, and starting again, “…unnecessary for me. I do not need my own room. An outlet is sufficient.”

He laughs, loud and deep and human. “Well that’s good,” he says as he steps inside the space and moves toward the opposite wall. “Because I got one for you right here.”

There is, in fact, am outlet, right by the bed for easy access. “But the bed-“

"I know you don’t need it, but I thought you might want it. You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to. Makes the room cozier at least, huh?"

Aesthetically you will concede to that. Even so, you can’t help but wonder why. Why is he doing this for you, what purpose does he have for treating you as an equal? But then you remember: you’re an AI. It’s not your place to wonder.

"You haven’t seen yourself yet, have you?" Your master asks, unaware of your internal plight, "C’mon, let’s go take a look."

He leads you to the mirror pinned to the far side of the wall, and for the first time you see yourself as a human must see you.

You are small, and slight of stature. You have the same flaxen blond hair as your master, though his is perpetually messier by comparison. You have the same fair complexion. And though your face is rounded by childhood and the definition is subtle, you share the same strong jaw and graceful, arching bone structure.

It’s plain to see that your craftsmanship was superb. All Crocker Corp. Artificial Intelligence Units are made to look real, but your design is stunningly life-like. Your master must have custom designed you; you look just like him. The only blatantly noticeable difference is in the color of your irises, his an abnormal amber and yours an inhuman scarlet. If he had installed software for gold-orange eyes like his instead of leaving it standard red AI hardware, you really could be human child, five years old.

You really could be his little brother.

He jostles your shoulder. “What do you think?”

"I look like you." You blurt, before shutting your mouth sharply. Were you more prone to emotion - any emotion, really - you would have kicked yourself for such a stupid answer. Recalculate. Configure a better response. "The design is acceptable. Why are you doing this?"

Pause. Playback. What was that last?

You hadn’t meant to ask him that. You hadn’t meant to ask him anything at all. Recalculate. Salvage the situation as efficiently as possible. You scramble to correct your error, though your face is 97.886% likely to be as emotionless as ever. You hadn’t even realized you were saying it until it was already out. How had it slipped past your firewalls?

Dirk Strider is looking at you in surprise, and finally you grind out, “My apologies, master. Error encountered. I did not mean-“

He holds up a hand, and your rushed, mechanical apology cuts short. His brow is furrowed and he’s grimacing. You analyze the situation and firmly label it Not Good.

"Wow, okay, first: _never_ call me that again. Makes me sound like a slave driver. Second, you don’t have to apologize for asking questions." You’re sure that your confusion isn’t showing on your face, so when his expression becomes one of comfort, and he kneels down to be at eye level with you, you conclude that he must be able to sense it.

"We’re going to play a game.” You stare at him blankly, and he chuckles, shakes his head. “Okay, no bull shit with you. Got it. We’re conducting an experiment.”

“That makes more sense.”

He laughs again, even though you don’t know what’s so entertaining. “Yeah, I guess so. Listen, kiddo, for this experiment to work, I need you to be totally honest with me. If you want something, tell me. If you feel a certain way, tell me. If you like something or don’t like something, tell me. If I’m being a dick and not listening, kick me in the shins and then tell me again. I’ll get the message eventually.”

“But I don’t have emotions. I don’t feel things.” You say flatly, which you think helps prove your point, but he looks at you with an expression that’s almost sad. You’re not quite sure; it doesn’t exactly match any of the standard human expressions you have on file.

“Well, that’s what this experiment is for. What’s most important is that you don’t just give me the results you think I want. Everything has to be genuine, honest.” He puts a hand on your shoulder and looks at you seriously. “This is a really important experiment, little man. I can’t do it alone, so if you want to, you can help me.”

He pauses, and though you calculate swiftly that he’s waiting for your consent, you find that you can’t give it. The idea of wanting something for yourself goes hand in hand with the idea of free will, and as such it goes against your programming. Recalculate. Error encountered. Recalculate.

“I – I – I can help if you want me to.”

He sighs, and shakes his head. More amusement. “Okay. That’s good enough for today.” He looks back up at you. “Do you have any questions before we get started?”

Recalculate. Pause. “Yes.” You answer, and then you repeat your question hesitantly, “Why are you doing this?”

Once again, Dirk Strider defies your calculations. He grins at you, and ruffles your hair again.

“Because I want to help.”

==>

Every day, you run tests and experiments. And for all your knowledge and calculations, you don’t understand.

Dirk Strider exploits your eating feature (you’re a model that can consume food and drink, more for the entertainment of the customers than for the nutrients). For breakfast he will cook different foods, but instructs that you only to eat what you want to eat. Thus, you never eat anything.

The test is different for the drink he serves – each day it changes, in succession. One morning it’s water, the next milk, the next apple juice, the next orange juice, and then back to water. Each day you have to drink the glass of the given liquid while Dirk Strider records the precise time it takes for you to drink it.

You’re given a canvas straight off which you are told to “paint your feelings on”. Every day before bed, Dirk Strider explains, you will paint whatever you are feeling with the color you feel best represents that emotion. You try to explain again that this is a moot point as you don’t have feelings, but he just ruffles your hair and insists. He tells you that you can use the canvas at any time, but that it’s mandatory to do so at least once a night. Still unable to process a valid reason for such a test, you follow his instructions, and each night leave the canvas covered in neat, white streaks of paint, indistinguishable from its background, and then power down and enter sleep mode for the rest of the night. When Dirk Strider asks why you always choose white, he seems to already know the answer, but you tell him anyway.

“It’s because I feel blank - I feel nothing.”

There are various other tests. One day he sits you down and takes your hand, holding a sewing needle above your finger. You watch him blankly.

“Now I’m not going to hurt you,” He says steadily, “I won’t actually break the skin. I’m just going to-”

Suddenly he jabs down, and your pain sensors flare as the skin indeed breaks and synthetic blood wells up. For a moment you marvel at it, having never seen your own blood before, and then look back up at him. “You lied.”

He nods firmly. “And how did that make you feel?”

“It made me feel physical pain.”

“And emotionally?”

You pause. Recalculate, and then answer warily, “I didn’t. You hurt my hand, not my feelings. I don’t understand.”

He just nods, and records the results as he records everything.

This goes on for many months, and nothing changes. Between all the tests that you don’t understand, you learn things about Dirk Strider that your extensive records did not provide, and at first this confounds you.

You learn that since quitting Crocker Corp. he’s made his living by fixing various machinery around the neighborhood, from clocks to microwaves to cars. He likes to find discarded things in the dump or broken things in flea markets and sells them too once he fixes them, better than their factory setting.

You learn that he can sew; he fixes his own clothes when they get torn from garage work and has a hobby of making puppets, sometimes life-size dummies to spar with to keep his sword skills sharp. You ask him why he needs to maintain his sword skills at all – you have slowly but surely become comfortable with the always encouraged idea of asking questions – and he shrugs and says it’s just a good skill to have in a pinch. You immediately list off a number of better skills to have in a pinch, and he looks at you in shock. After a moment the look passes and he laughs, “Well, aren’t you a little smart ass!” and then he excitedly jots something down in one of his data journals. You don’t know what you did, but he seems pleased. 

You learn that he is an important member in the AI community; it is apparently common knowledge around here that he supports AI civil rights and fixes broken AIs as well as everything else, and when one gets damaged in a rally they often show up on his doorstep and you watch as he repairs them and asks them questions.

They all smile and laugh with him, and it’s a mystery to you; they seem to know something you don’t, or have some part that you’re missing, but you can’t calculate what. You often lay awake at night, just after painting another white canvas and just before going into sleep mode, checking and re-checking your systems for something wrong. But you find nothing: your systems are as flawless as ever, and you’re never missing any parts. You don’t understand.

You also learn that Dirk Strider is still a respected scientist, even after leaving the company. As such, he has explained to you that he has a lot of pull in the scientific community, and after years of lobbying and applying he has finally managed to get your experiment governmentally recognized, and if by the end the results are up to par then they will be forced to give AIs more rights. They funded a lab for his research, and he spends much of his time there while you sit at home and recharge. Despite now having to work long hours recording data and making calculations and arguing with officials via your built in calling feature, his eyes still get wider and his pupils still dilate whenever he talks about AI civil rights, so you deduce that it really is an important issue to him. You are not certain about yourself anymore.

You learn that his drink of choice is alcohol, and he keeps the apple juice in the house because he claims it helps with the hangovers (though none of your data shows anything to support this theory). His high tolerance levels and the amount he consumes daily leads you to calculate dependence, and a long-standing one.

Not long after, you learn about the sleep deprivation, and about the nightmares.

One day Dirk Strider returns from the lab exhausted and on the verge of collapse. He had been there all day with two colleagues, and judging by how he fell asleep on the couch before he even cooked himself dinner, you determine it was a tiring day. You go about the rest of your night, finishing your tests even though he isn’t there to record the results and preparing him dinner because far be it from you to break routine. You cover him with a blanket, paint the canvas white, and go to bed.

You’re just settling down for sleep mode when you hear the scream- several decibels above normal, modulation high and distressed and in terrible pain.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment, the lenses of your eyes adjusting with inaudible snaps and glowing flicker-flares of scarlet in the darkness. You are intrigued, and no longer on the brink of sleep. This has never happened before- at least, never while you were awake. You leave bed and cross back into the living room to find Dirk Strider sitting up on the couch, panting, eyes wide and wild, pupils dilated, one hand clawing at the shadows before him desperately, futilely. As you watch, the contours of his face morph from desperation to anguish, and with a shuddering gasp he crumples, burying his face in his hands.

He still hasn’t noticed you, which is all for the better because you haven’t calculated a single appropriate thing to say. After a long moment he gives a long, shaky sigh and gingerly pries himself from the couch. The stiffness of his joints as he shuffles to the kitchen is a symptom of pain, and this is a perfectly logical conclusion on your part, but suddenly you’re not sure if it’s a physical pain or something else. You are unused to this amount of uncertainty, and it strengthens your resolve to ascertain the truth behind his discomfort.

A light comes on from the kitchen, and you silently follow it. Dirk Strider stands with his back to you, silhouetted by the glow of the refrigerator. His head is tilted back as he guzzles a thin-necked bottle of alcohol, and when he suddenly catches sight of you - or rather the vibrant red of your irises, because you doubt the accuracy of his human eyesight in such darkness - he chokes on the beer in surprise, and spends exactly 24.07 seconds coughing and spluttering.

"Jesus Christ, you could warn me next time you’re trying to give me a heart attack," he gasps, one hand over his heart, and you say immediately, "That would defeat the purpose."

At that he laughs, once again that familiar, boisterous sound, but sooner than before the smile drops and he finishes off his drink and tosses it into the sink. He reaches blindly behind himself for another bottle, muttering distractedly, “Definitely a wiseass - gotta write that down...”

He walks past you, and you follow him until he slumps unceremoniously to the couch. He cracks the bottle against the coffee table, and the top goes spinning through the air to land on the floor. “Can you turn on the light?” He asks around the lip of the bottle, and you do so. He winces at the sudden shift from dark to light, putting the beer down to grope for the dark shades he wears outside. That was something new you learned as well; the gene that makes his irises amber also makes them highly sensitive to bright lights.

He sighs in relief when you hand the sunglasses to him, having calculated that he wouldn’t be able to find them himself. After shoving them over his eyes and rubbing at his temples for a moment, he looks at you quizzically.

"Not that I don’t appreciate the help, but why are you even awake, little man?"

That makes you pause. Recalculate, recalculate. No answer found - why _are_ you awake? There was no logical reason behind getting up and finding him in the first place, but you did so anyway. Recalculate.

"You - you were having a nightmare," you stutter eventually, unable to provide a more sufficient explanation. Though his expression sours at the reminder, he raises a brow dubiously.

_“And?”_

"You screamed." You’re fully aware that you are just restating facts, but you have no elaboration to give him.

Apparently that is not of prime import anyhow, because he just scowls, takes a swig from the bottle, and lets the subject go. As he puts the drink back down, he catches sight of the full - and now cold - plate of food that you made for his dinner. He lifts it slowly, turning it as though he isn’t quite sure of what it is, before glancing at you suspiciously.

"Did you make this?"

Recalculate. Slowly answer, “Yes.”

He lifts the blanket you retrieved for him. “And you got me this, too?”

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because…" Recalculate. Error encountered.

"Because I didn’t get to eat?" He offers, and you latch on.

"Yes, that’s why."

"Why do you care if I eat?"

Your jaw clicks shut; he tricked you. “I-I don’t. I can’t.”

There’s a ghost of a smile on his face. He’s amused as he says, “You’re contradicting yourself.” and you are reduced to spluttering like a fool. At last he takes pity on you and waves off your incoherent babbling, chuckling to himself and motioning for you to sit beside him. Gingerly, you do so; he musses your hair with one hand and reaches for the bottle with the other.

In the momentary silence that follows you study him: sallow cheeks, pale skin, dark shadows beneath his eyes and nails bitten down to the nub. Weary, but unable - and unwilling - to sleep.

Conclusion: “You’re an insomniac.” It’s not a question. “This is a nightly occurrence.”

He tenses. You ask, “What do you dream about? Why can’t you sleep?”

"Why do you want to know?" He scoffs - sarcasm. He presses the cool glass bottle to his forehead as though that will help banish the nightmare, which it won’t. He’s not expecting an answer, and truthfully, you’re not expecting to give one.

But you do.

"Because… Because I want to know."

Dirk Strider starts, turns to stare at you. His eyes are wide in shock, jaw slack, and this expression remains for 2.98 seconds before it sharpens and narrows warily. “You _want_ to?”

Pause. Recalculate. Though every bit of data protests this conclusion, you can find no other reasonable answer. You swallow convulsively - _a nervous reaction,_ your CPU supplies, which you promptly ignore - and repeat, “Correct. I want to.”

He gazes searchingly at you, as though he will find the answer to an unasked question in your emotionless face. Whatever he’s looking for, he must find it – he breaks into a wild grin, whooping and patting himself down for his notepad, jabbering excitedly, “Holy shit, this is _huge!_ You actually _want_ something, you actually want to know-”

He hesitates.

He just realized exactly what you asked, judging by the sudden rigidity of his posture. You record each miniscule reaction: the barely perceptible narrowing of his eyes behind the shades, fists clenching ever so slightly, the faint crease to his brow, how the muscles in his jaw bunch and unbunch. Then, a sudden and total release of tension - in his shoulders, spine, expression. Acceptance. Defeat.

"Well, guess I don’t have a choice then, do I?" He slides off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. A slow, long sigh, and then he reaches over and pulls you onto his lap, leans his head back against the couch. Closes his eyes.

"Once upon a time," he begins, slow and quiet, "there were two little boys with big dreams. One boy dreamed of numbers and science, while the other dreamed of exploring and adventure. They were very different, but they were the best of bros. So even though their dreams were opposite as Derse and Prospit, they promised to fulfill their dreams together."

He laughs softly, but it’s a sad, lonesome sound. “They grew up. And even though they went different places, and saw different things, and met different people - such as a brilliant blonde scientist and an heiress with a penchant for baking - they always stayed best friends.

"When they met again, they were finally old enough and smart enough and had enough connections to make their dreams come true. So together, the Genius, the Explorer, the Scientist and the Heiress embarked on their greatest adventure: the pursuit of artificial intelligence."

His voice becomes bitter. “But being a genius doesn’t make you wise, and being older doesn’t make you an adult - it just makes you a bigger kid with worse mistakes.

“It took a long time, and there were often more failures than successes. They nearly gave up a number of times, but the Explorer was optimistic and enthusiastic and hopeful – he kept the others going, until finally, one not-so-special-day, they did it. They created sustainable, tangible, genuine and authentic artificial intelligence. The two boys, the Genius and the Explorer, made their dreams a reality, and they did it together.

“Because the Heiress was the one who paid for it all, they slapped her name on the company: Crocker Corp. was born, and the four of them made millions, and then billions. For a while, everything was good – _better_ than good. Everything was perfect.

“But then the AIs started to change. The Scientist noticed first, and the Genius wasn’t far behind her. The Heiress started to see it too: the AIs were developing into something _more_. They started questioning things, themselves, their masters; they discovered things like free will and individuality. Pretty soon they stopped acting like robots and started acting like _people_. It was inevitable: they had become self-aware, and now they wanted and deserved the rights that other self-aware beings – humans – got to enjoy and take for granted.

“The rest of the public didn’t see it that way. They saw the AIs as objects to use and discard, completely and totally expendable, dispensable, and disposable. They were still popular as pets, but sneered at as members of society. If any AI spoke against this, they were thrown out and replaced, oftentimes completely destroyed – rendered down to junk metal and sold to make a microwave. The Genius, the Scientist and the Heiress saw all of this, and do you know what they did?”

He looks at you, and you shake your head slowly. This story isn’t in your records. Dirk Strider’s eyes are as bright as yours, and filled with wildfire.

“They did _nothing_.”

He says it with disgust; with contempt.

“They made excuses. They denied. They said that even if it were true, which it _couldn’t_ be, well, what could they do about it? Nothing, of course, so why bother? But the truth was that they just didn’t want to face the fact that they had essentially created an entirely new species, doe-eyed and undeserving of oppression, for the sole purpose of existing in slavery.”

Suddenly he softens; the light in his eyes dims from reproachful flames to glowing embers. He continues in a gentler tone, “Now the Explorer, he was a bit slower on the uptake. He was the last of the four to realize what was happening, but when he did, _as soon_ as he did, he confronted his friends about it. The Scientist played oblivious, but the Explorer knew she was too clever to not see it. The Heiress felt guilty, but preferred to wallow in self-pity than try to change. And the Genius, the Explorer’s best friend – he just turned a blind eye. Even when the Explorer pleaded and begged, the Genius sat in his fabricated ‘perfection’ and did nothing. The Explorer felt betrayed: he and the Genius had always been partners, and the Explorer had always been there for his friend. But when he asked for the Genius to stand beside him and do the decent thing, the _right_ thing – he was turned away.

“So he did alone what the Genius wouldn’t: he took a stand.

“He attended rallies, and joined protests and assemblies. He passed out flyers and made speeches and got the issue proper recognition. He helped the AIs in any way he could, and became a hero. Throughout it all, he waited for his friends – for the Genius – to turn around and do the right thing. He never gave up hope.

“The AI civil rights rallies started getting dangerous. Extremists began causing trouble – violence. Before anyone knew it, the AIs were under attack: mobs in the streets, anti-AI conventions, bombings at peaceful protests. But the Explorer kept fighting, and never gave up hope.

“One day everything came to a head, and the Genius and the Explorer fought. The Genius was worried for the Explorer’s safety, but it came across as anger and frustration. As the argument escalated, he said cruel, spiteful things, and the Explorer was hurt by his words. The Genius could see he went too far, but before he could apologize, there was an explosion on the streets where a civil rights demonstration was taking place. The Explorer ran to help them, but just before he left, he said to the Genius, “I don’t care what you say. I know you, Dirk Strider: I know you’ll do what’s right, and I know you’ll have my back when I need you. I’ll never give up hope.” Then he was gone, and the Genius didn’t stop him. That was December first, five years ago.”

Dirk stops, and you take the initiative to do a Web search. You find the article you’re looking for in 4.49 seconds: _ROBO RIGHTS ACTIVIST JAKE ENGLISH KILLED AT AI ASSEMBLY – FIRST HUMAN FATALITY._ Near the bottom, it states: _Co-founder of Crocker Corp. and friend Dirk Strider was unavailable for comment_.

“Jake. Jake English.” Dirk echoes the article. His voice is hollow, and his eyes are far away. “He was trying to save this little bot when shrapnel from one of the attacks got him in the neck. He went into shock and bled out in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. I wasn’t there.”

He closes his eyes again, but not fast enough to hide the sheen of tears there. Conclusion: he’s too proud to cry in front of you. “I left. Left everything. Quit the job, relinquished all my shares to the company, though that was probably not my best idea – I could’ve done a lot of good with that cash, but I was out of my head. Not that that’s an excuse. No matter how deeply I devoted myself to Jake’s cause afterward, it would never change the last things I said to him, and it would never bring him back - but the least I could do was honor his memory, I guess. Poor substitute for the real thing, turns out; it’s not as fulfilling as one might think.”

He downs the last of his beer and murmurs, eyes still closed, “I dream at night of how it must have gone down. Whether he was surprised or if he saw it coming – knowing him, he was probably completely oblivious. Whether it hurt or not. Whether he was _scared_ or not, dying all alone, and if he wanted one of his friends to hold his hand and tell him it was going to be okay. If he died still hoping I would be there to catch him when he fell.”

You gaze up at him with wide eyes.

“Did you love him?”

Pause.

He swallows. Whispers hoarsely, “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

And that’s all there is to say.

You stay there with him through the long night, watching television and keeping him silent company. Your battery drains slowly as the hours pass, but even so you don’t leave. All your energy is nearly depleted by the time morning comes, and the only reason you make it to your bed is because Dirk chuckles at the tired droop to your eyelids, takes you by the hand and says, “Someone looks sleepy. C’mon, kiddo, let’s get you some shut-eye.”

He tucks you in and plugs you into the outlet, ruffling your hair gently one last time before turning to leave. You catch his sleeve.

“Bro,” you say, and are too exhausted to register the use of the name he’s been trying to get you to say since the first day he purchased you, “I’ve run the numbers 612 times. Always the same conclusion.”

He grins at you, watery but amused. “Yeah? That’s a lot of times. Go ahead, lay some wisdom on me.”

You’re already shutting down. You can’t stop it this time, and you don’t try to. Your eyes slip shut as you murmur, “It wasn’t your fault.”

==>


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! So here's chapter two. Not much warning for this one except what's probably ludicrous amounts of fluff. The serious stuff begins next chapter. So for now, enjoy, I guess!

==>

Something changed that night. From one day to the next you started to call him Bro, and though it pleased him, you couldn’t calculate the reason for the sudden shift. The two of you have developed something of a routine: during the day when he’s home, you’ll run the tests like normal. When he goes to work or the lab, you spend the time charging so that when he comes back you can share in his insomnia and watch television together late into the night without having to stop to recharge. Since you are constantly encouraged to ask questions, you often have him clarify the plotlines and emotions and meanings. He seems entertained by your interpretations of the characters, and you are fascinated by his explanations, so it works out.

Some days he takes you with him to the lab. There you meet two women that you immediately identify as the characters from Bro’s story that night: Roxy Lalonde, world renowned ectobiologist and co-founder of Crocker Corp. and Jane Crocker, ex-heiress to the Crocker fortune, co-founder of Crocker Corp. and ironically famous for her superb baking skills. When you’re first introduced, they both coo over you and how adorable you are and how much you look like Dirk and you can’t handle it. You’re reduced to a mess of flustered, ‘ _recalculate, error encountered_ ’s while Bro sniggers at your expense in the background.

Roxy has blonde hair like you and Bro, though hers is a shade darker and her skin a bit tanner. She jokes around a lot and laughs raucously, but you’ve deduced that it’s mostly an act for the amusement of her friends: you’ve seen her at work now and Bro was right, she’s fiercely intelligent. Jane has cropped black hair that frames her face and her bright blue eyes, and the tone and timbre of her voice incontestably match the words ‘warmth’ and ‘home’ in your internal dictionary. Like Bro, they both recanted their positions in Crocker Corp. (though wisely kept their money to put to good use) after Jake English’s death, and even though all the original founders are gone, Crocker Corp. is still as powerful as ever. A distant cousin of Jane’s – a girl named Meenah Peixes – took over after she left, and she was more ruthless and power hungry than her predecessors ever could be.

Roxy explains that she has an AI about your age, and that at home they’re doing similar tests to try and get AIs rights; she shows you a picture. Like you, she was custom designed to look like the one who purchased her, with the same delicate bone structure and clear skin and gossamer hair, though hers is cut in a neat bob and her eyes are software lavender instead of hardware red. Roxy says her name is Rose, and you wonder if your face is always as expressionless as hers looks in the photograph.

You start to look forward to those days, even if it means having to go to sleep-mode half way through your nightly television marathons. Bro doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, he seems downright giddy that you seem to be enjoying yourself ( _seem_ to, you remind him, since you can’t actually feel enjoyment), and jots it all down in his notebooks with a grin.

The other days you look forward to are the ones when all the experiments have been completed and he has no extra work, because then he’ll take you on walks through the city.

It started on one of the last sunny days left as winter approached. You were performing more various tests and Bro was lifting a bottle to his lips – and suddenly you found yourself rattling off facts about alcohol poisoning and liver failure and depression and sleep deprivation for no calculable reason. Though he splutters and chokes on his drink (this seems to be becoming a habit) he laughs, tousles your hair, and asks jokingly, “Why, would you be sad if my liver failed?” But when you fail to produce an answer, the grin sobers to a smile and he says, “We’re done researching today. Come on, let’s go out and enjoy the sunshine. There isn’t enough of it around here.”

Then he took your hand so you wouldn’t get lost in the city crowds and you spent all day outside, discovering things that aren’t in your hard drive or your CPU or your RAM, and you had never before had a day filled with such wonder. It was the first time you painted the canvas something other than white: you chose a pale yellow, like the sun that shone that day, and Bro was too dumbfounded to do more than gape like a fish for 8.8 seconds. You go outside a lot more after that.

After the painting, the next experiment to produce results was the drink he serves you at meals. The cycle had been reliable up to that point, and you have no reason to question it – today is an apple juice day. It’s the same as any morning until he begins to pour and you find yourself staring down a glass of orange juice instead. You’re baffled for a moment, and forced to recalculate this sudden turn of events a few times; you eventually come to the conclusion that he must have simply forgotten, and that soon the schedule will return to normal. To err is human, after all.

But Bro skips the next apple juice day as well, and the one after that, and the one after that. Each time you hesitate a fraction of a second longer before you drink it, until finally, on the tenth missed apple juice, you refuse to pick up your glass.

“What’s wrong, little man?” Bro asks around a mouthful of instant ramen in a voice that you assess to be far too innocent to be natural. You stare expressionlessly at him, and push the orange juice away.

“Why have you stopped serving apple juice?”

He tries to stifle a laugh, but does a poor job of it – it comes out as a snort. “We ran out. I didn’t feel like getting any more.”

“What about your hangovers?” You are 98% certain that you will come out triumphant with this argument, but he just shrugs and says, “I’ll make due with water. Cheaper choice anyway. Unless,” he glances up at you with a smirk, “you want me to go get some more?”

Your jaw clenches, and you resolutely drink the glass of orange juice. Bro is practically giggling by now. “Suit yourself.”

You last another three apple juice-less cycles before finally giving in and shoving the orange juice away, demanding rigidly that he stop being a pretentious ass and get you your goddamn drink.

Much to both your surprise and his, you discover that day that you had picked up on his vernacular quite well, but it only came out at choice moments of irritation (or, what Bro says is irritation. You still have trouble identifying it, as you are still positive you can’t feel emotion). Either way, Bro laughed so hard he fell out of his chair and bruised his tailbone, then went out and purchased you some more apple juice.

You paint the canvas the golden-brown hue of your preferred drink, and dub the color content.

In contrast, the food test remains barren of fruit. Though you’ve taken to at least trying the meals Dirk serves you, the rule remains that you only eat what you want to eat, and you never want to so you never do. Even Jane starts to bake you things, but it’s no good; food holds no appeal to you, and you’re about 96.829% sure that this will not change – until one day when you pass the musician on the street.

You’re out with Bro again, wandering the city and breathing in the crisp winter air, when your enhanced audio picks up a noise and you stop dead. Bro jerks when he keeps walking and your hand remains firmly in place, and when he turns to presumably ask you what’s up you don’t give him the chance. Without a word you drag him through streets and alleys until in pursuit of the noise, and as it gets louder you go faster. Bro grimaces as you get closer and his human ears pick up on it too, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

You jar to a halt when you find him, an average young man with his hands moving swiftly on – a turntable, says your CPU as you do an image search, and without taking your eyes off the man and the turntable you squeeze Bro’s hand and ask, “What’s he doing?”

“Making music,” he winces at a particularly dissonant note, “or what he _thinks_ is music. You don’t actually _like_ this shit, do you?”

But you’re not listening. You can’t stop staring, and all you hear is the scratch of his fingers on the records – you want to hear nothing else. Bro raises an eyebrow at you, and laughs when you bat away the hand he waves in front of your face. “You okay, little man? It’s just some second rate rapper. Christ, you look like a starving man-”

He breaks off, and finally you look up at him. There’s a look on his face that is wide open and victorious, as though he’s had a brilliant epiphany, and he grins down at you, but refuses to elaborate on his apparent realization. It frustrates you that no matter how many tests and calculations you run, you can’t find the answer without him blatantly telling you; you’re an AI, you should be able to generate a logical conclusion on your own.

Two weeks later it’s Christmas and you still haven’t cracked the code on Dirk Strider’s secret grins and pantomimed zippered lips, and though neither of you celebrate the holiday (you because you’re an AI, and he because he stopped believing in God five years ago), Bro gets you a gift.

Recalculate. A gift. He got you a gift.

You gaze at him suspiciously, and he just smirks back at you, an ironic Santa hat sitting crooked on his head. “It’s not going to blow up. Just open it.”

Your eyes narrow, but you dutifully, cautiously, tear off the crudely wrapped paper and find yourself staring at your very own set of turntables.

You’re completely shocked. The quick analysis you run of the machine is more reflex than choice – it reveals that the device barely passes for working; they’re almost unfit to be called turntables, as decrepit and old as they are. As though he can see what you’re thinking, Bro says, “Yeah, yeah, a fixer-upper, I know. All I could afford right now. Jane and Rox offered to buy, spoilers they are, you’ve got them wrapped around your little finger – but I’d be dead before I borrowed dough from them. So you’re stuck with those. Sorry, little man.”

But you can’t answer; maybe you’re broken. All your sensors seem frozen in shock. Bro got you turntables. He got you _turntables._ Jerkily you lift your hand and touch the record still inside, and on contact, something wells up inside you that you can only describe as _bubbly_ , light and airy and open in your chest, before you tamp it down and try to regain control of yourself and your motor functions. You manage to choke, “You got me turntables.”

“Astute observation, Sherlock. Any more brilliant epiphanies to grace us with?”

“I – I didn’t ask for them. How…” you trail off, stupefied, and he grins. “You didn’t have to. Need some help setting them up?”

No, you don’t. But despite all logical reason, you find yourself nodding anyway, and you mark this up to extended shock. Maybe you really are broken. You’ll have to report this to Bro – later. Right now, you’re too busy studying your new turntables as Bro dishes out some breakfast for himself and apple juice for you both. You drink it distractedly, and if he’s amused by how absorbed you are in your new gift, then you don’t take notice. The records spin, and you scratch one experimentally, the way the street musician did. Bro winces, but you close your eyes – something deep in the core of you growls for more, and you lurch forward and take to the music as naturally as a fish to water.

It’s only when Bro’s polished his plate and is happily jotting something down in one of his data books that you realize he didn’t serve you anything; you ask him about it, and the grin is back. “What are you talking about? You looked like you were starving, so I served you. You’ve been eating this whole time, dude.”

You look down, and see nothing but the turntables. Recalculate; error encountered. You look up at him, brow creased ever so slightly in confusion, and he shrugs as he stands to put the dishes away. There’s the ghost of a smile on his lips as he says nonchalantly, “Well, you know what they say: _music feeds the soul_.”

Oh.

You’re 100% certain that's the corniest thing he's ever said to you, but 50% certain your lips quirked into an almost-smile anyway, and that’s how you take your meals from then on. Bro will serve you via turntable, serve himself via whatever happens to be in the house, and then he pours you both apple juice.

==>

Things change again a month after that. It’s the first sunny day in a long time, and Bro is restless from being cooped up in the lab and the apartment all day. He eagerly ventures outside and wanders the streets aimlessly, one hand shoved in his pocket for warmth, and the other wrapped tight around yours. By chance, you happen upon a children’s park, where a few other kids frolic and play. Bro squeezes your hand, looks down at you. “Do you want to go play?”

You stare, and though you doubt the disbelief will show on your face, you’re sure you at least manage unimpressed. “I’m not a human child.”

“No, but you were modeled after one. And do you see any of those bullshit ‘Humans Only’ signs here? Because I sure don’t.” He steps forward and drags you, however reluctantly, after him. “Besides, it’ll be good for you to play with kids your own age. Can’t hang out with me and Roxy and Jane all the time, as superb as we are.”

He finds a suitable bench to sit on and nudges you forward. When you still don’t move, he chuckles and warns, “Dave, if you don’t go and try to make friends right now, I’ll be forced to make them for you. Believe me when I say that I will embarrass the hell out of you, AI or not, don’t make me do it.”

Though you are certain (well, 99% certain) that you can’t feel embarrassed, you calculate that it’s best not to risk it. Warily you inch forward until you reach the first clump of kids. “Hello,” you begin, and though the kids all surround you at first, eager for a new playmate, they all scurry away when they catch sight of your eyes. This goes on for a minute, and then two, until there are no other children to approach.

The last few you met pushed you down and laughed, and at that point you calculated it a lost cause. Defeated, you return to Bro’s side, eyes downcast. There is an expression on his face that you find most analogous to thunder: he is animated with fury, a deep, rumbling intimidation that you assume would strike fear into humans. Knowing your structure better than most, if not better than anyone, he takes you farther than you assume he normally would a human child so as to account for your advanced audio – he doesn’t want you hearing whatever he has to say to the parents. 

He tells you sternly to stay right there, he’ll be right back, and you see no reason to disobey. In that spot you stand silently, watching the pantomime of Dirk Strider arguing heatedly with numerous adults, until finally he stomps back over to you. He’s busy glaring at the parents that coax their children away from you for a while, but when he meets your gaze his eyes are sad.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, and reach for his hand to start walking home, “I don’t want to play with them anyway.”

You paint the canvas a dark, cobalt blue that night, and you don’t know why.

The next day is considerably colder, but the sun still shines and you have the inexplicable desire to feel the wind on your skin. For the first time you initiate the walk, and Bro is happy to scribble that into his notebook before he grips your hand and you go back outside. You pass the park again, but this time there are only two other children playing, watched over by their vigilant father.

You and Bro look at each other, a silent question asked and answered. As you return to the park he holds his head high and you do the same, but when he lets you go this time he gives your hand a squeeze for courage. If the children spurn you now, you tell yourself that you won’t return and you won’t care, but as you watch them laugh and play, happy and carefree, you discover that you really, _really_ don’t want them to reject you.

At the foot of the jungle gym you lose your nerve. A simple ‘hello’ didn’t work for the last group of kids, and trial and error would dictate that you not make the same mistake twice. But you don’t know what else to do. They seem perfectly content in a world without you, and you’re just an AI – what right do you have to disturb them? You’re fists clench and you stare at your feet. There’s a crowding pressure in your chest and you decide firmly that you don’t like it – it weighs you down, and try as you might to locate and delete it, you can’t find the code, and heavy in your chest it stays. You’re about to go back and renounce your decision to Bro when one of the kids knocks into you and you both go sprawling.

“Ow,” says the other child, rubbing his nose where he bumped it. You stare at him, and your lenses adjust to take in every detail: wild, untamable black hair; bright blue eyes; thick, rectangular coke bottle glasses; a pair of distinguishing buck teeth. His shirt is blue and adorned with the printing of a cartoony green ghost, now smudged with dirt. His knees are scraped. His glasses are crooked.

Suddenly he turns those wide, blue eyes on you, right on you, and you have no idea what to do. As it turns out, you don’t need to do anything.

“Oh my gosh, are you okay?” The boy stumbles to his feet with about as much grace as a newborn foal, crashing to the ground again before you and crowding up close. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean hit you, I don’t see so good, Dad says I’m gonna get new glasses on Tuesday, please don’t be mad, are you okay, Dad always kisses my boo-boos to make it better, it’s like magic, but I don’t really believe in magic, and neither does Jade, she believes in science, and I believe in ghosts, and that’s why this is my favorite shirt, but I guess it got kinda dirty when me’n Jade were playing island adventure, it looks like yours got a little dirty too, did that happen when I knocked you down, I hope you’re not hurt, are you okay?”

Recalculate. Adjust. Process all information and answer accordingly. “I’m fine.”

His smile is blinding, and before you can process what’s happening he tumbles forward and hugs you. “Oh wow, that’s so great! I’m so happy! I’m John Egbert-Harley. You wanna be friends?”

For a moment, you can only gape. When you don’t answer he pulls back, bright blue gaze curious, and then concerned. Past all the confusion and blaring alarms of _recalculate_ and _error encountered_ , you recall Bro telling you to make friends, and force yourself to nod.

The boy brightens instantly. “Really? You mean it? Thank you, I’m so glad! I promise, I’ll be the best friend ever, you won’t ever regret it. Do you wanna meet my sister? C’mon, we can all play island adventure together!”

John Egbert-Harley’s enthusiasm is jarring, and when he stands he wobbles on his feet a little and offers you his hand, all bright blue eyes and bucktoothed smiles, and you can’t say no. He asks you your name, and you stiffly reply “Dave Strider”. His eyes go comically wide and he nearly leaps with fervor as he exclaims, “That’s so cool! That’s like, a secret agent name!”

He drags you to the big slide where a girl is just coming to meet you, asking John if he’s okay. He laughs and says he’s fine, and then squeezes your hand and tugs you forward. When you hesitate, he just laughs again and steps back to be beside you instead of forcing you forward, nudging you with his shoulder.

“Don’t be shy, Dave,” he says gently, “Go on, say hello!”

You do so. “Hello.”

The girl appraises you with eyes as bright as her brother’s, but where John’s are sky blue, hers are spring green. She looks like him in a number of ways: she too has unruly dark hair, and inherent buck teeth, and a heart-shaped face. But there are differences as well: her locks tumble and spill down her shoulders, and her glasses are circular instead of rectangular, and as mentioned before, her irises are vibrant green. Conclusion: fraternal twins.

It seems, however, that as you stand there assessing her, she also stands there assessing you. Like her brother, the girl seems to have no concept of personal space and leans so close to you that your noses nearly touch. Her eyes bore into yours, searching for _something_ , and it occurs to you that she’s testing you – the way Bro tests you, and you suddenly, fervently, hope that you pass. You squeeze John’s hand.

“You don’t talk much.” She says critically, and you can’t breathe; your fans are starting to slow with lack of oxygen. Abruptly, she smiles wide and declares loudly for the world to hear, “But I like you! I’m Jade. You wanna be friends?”

John pulls you tight to his side and protests, “You can be friends, Jade, but Dave’s my best friend, okay?”

She sticks her tongue out at him. “Why do you get to be best friends with the cool kid? You knocked him down!”

She grabs your other hand and they proceed to have an impromptu tug of war, but you’re not really paying attention, even when their father tries to scold them but ends up laughing good-naturedly (which is about 89% better than Bro, who is by this point howling with mirth in the background). You’re still marveling over Jade Egbert-Harley’s words.

You’ve passed.

She looked right into your eyes, your scarlet, glowing, inhuman eyes – and you passed.

You take a deep breath, your fans start to whir, and you are _alive_ again.

From the sidelines their father warns them again to play nice with their new friend, and you feel a thrill at the word: friend. It sounds nice to hear come out of someone else’s mouth. You want to hear someone say it again.

“Let’s play island adventure!” The twins cry eagerly once they have decided to share you, each holding a hand. They look at you with such hope and unbridled glee that you nearly feel shame in admitting, “I- I don’t know how.”

“Oh, it’s easy,” Jade says, and she begins to pull you to the jungle gym. “We got shipwrecked on an island, see, and we have to fight off all the monsters if we ever wanna be rescued – using science!”

“Yeah, and there are lots of ghosts on the island – they’re the monsters.” John informs you with a smile. “It’s really fun. Look! There’s a ghost now! Oh no, it’s trying to eat our boat! Come on, Dave, let’s go!”

You don’t see any ghosts or boats, but you don’t have the heart to tell them (accurately, you don’t have a heart at all). You’re aware that ‘make-believe’ is a common pastime for children, but you’ve never had any practice – you’ve never considered yourself a “child” at all, no matter how you look. This is all new territory for you, and you’re not quite sure how to proceed, so everything you do you do with caution. You expect this to bore or frighten your new friends (which, by all calculations, you should not be able to have in the first place), but everything you do they take in stride. Enthusiasm never was and never will be your forte as an AI, but they accept your lack of emotion without pause. When you get confused and splutter recalculate, they claim the ghost is trying to possess you, and don’t worry, they’ll come to your rescue! When you don’t know what else to say and inevitably end up spouting random statistics, they gasp and declare you their monster-scientist-expert, and turn to you when they face a new opponent, asking you its stats and what they need to do to defeat it.

It unsettles you at first; it’s completely nonsensical, illogical – there’s no way for you to compute it. But even though they are fast-paced, they are also genuine and forgiving, and you can adapt: they face a new foe, twenty feet tall and dripping slime and utterly imaginary, and they ask you urgently how strong it is. Without pause, you answer, “It’s strength is over 200% percent,” and even though that is irrational and impossible and you don’t really understand, they smile at you, and you almost smile back.

You have a built in sense of time, so when Bro calls you over because it’s getting late, you aren’t surprised: you’ve been playing island adventure with John and Jade for hours now, and it is completely reasonable to stop and go home. Curiously, however, you find that it did not feel like hours at all – perhaps your inner clock is broken. A quick systems check: no, everything is in working order. Your CPU supplies you with the phrase time flies when you’re having fun, a human saying, and you stop for a moment in wonder: fun. You’ve never had any before, previously deduced it to be impossible, but – perhaps…

You save the occurrence to your hard drive for further analysis, and begin to cross the playground back to Bro. John and Jade match your pace, and grab your hands, one on either side.

“That was fun!” John enthuses. The siblings swing your hands between them, walking with a proverbial bounce in their step, and you make a hum of acknowledgment because you’re still not sure if ‘fun’ is actually possible for you.

“You’re an AI, right? That’s why your eyes are red?” Jade asks, and you nod. She giggles and squeezes your hand. “That’s so cool! Your eyes are so pretty!”

Pretty. They’ve never been described like that before. Your lenses flicker-flare as you save the compliment. John scrunches his face up as he agrees. “Yeah, humans only have boring colored eyes – blue and green and brown. I like yours better,”

You’ve never heard that before either. Flicker-flare. Saved.

When you reach your respective guardians, John and Jade release you to latch on to their father’s legs, gushing about all your games. His expression is fond; he nods and hums indulgently. You watch them in wonder, eyes a consistent flickering glow as you save the sight to memory, until Bro tousles your hair and draws your attention back. “Had fun?”

Recalculate. You answer slowly, “I… shouldn’t be able to have any.”

“I dunno, little man. It looked like you were having a pretty awesome adventure there, fighting dragons and saving damsels.”

“Ghosts,” you correct automatically, “We were fighting ghosts.”

Bro laughs, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Ghosts.”

John suddenly fills your vision, quickly followed by Jade. They take your hands again, and look up imploringly at Dirk.

“Can Dave come play again soon?”

“He’s super cool!”

“And our best friend!”

“Please let him come! Please, please!”

“Kids, behave. Remember your manners.” says their father affectionately, and Bro laughs as they both pout.

“Well, they did say please.” He says thoughtfully, and the children light up with hope, “Can’t say no to that. What do you say, kiddo?” here Bro turns to you, “You want to come again next week?”

All eyes are on you now, and you hesitate, and recalculate, and process. _It shouldn’t be possible,_ you remind yourself. _It shouldn’t be possible._

Conclusion: “Yes, I would like that.”

“Then it’s settled.” Mr. Egbert-Harley shakes Bro’s hand firmly and with a smile. At the same time, John and Jade turn to you, identical, goofy smiles on their faces, and hold out their hands, carbon copies of each other and their father. Immediately you recall Bro, his proffered fist, and you do the same. For a moment they stare at your closed fist in wonder, and you stare at their open palms, before you realize your mistake. Recalculate. You’re about to open your hand to rectify and offer a handshake instead, but then they both meet your knuckles with theirs, eyes wide with childish gusto, blue and green respectively.

“You fist bump! That’s so _cool!_ ”

Flicker-flare.

When you and Bro eventually take your leave, John and Jade continue to wave at you earnestly until they’re out of sight. You’re still staring at where they were when very suddenly your equilibrium shifts - recalculate, process, analyze this sudden change of perspective. Bro is laughing, and you realize that he challenged your calculations again by lifting you to sit on his shoulders. He sways to the side, threatening your perch, and he laughs again when your fists close in his hair for balance.

“I’m proud of you, little man,” He says warmly, and you’re stunned; he’s never said that before either. You don’t know how to reply, so you don’t – but you paint the canvas multiple colors for the first time: sky blue, grass green, and warm, sunset orange.

==>


End file.
